Night Sirens

Night Sirens

By

Stefan Vučak

Smashwords Edition

Copyright: Stefan Vučak ©2022

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

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ISBN-13: 9780645116328

Review

I loved the suspense, mystery, and drama in Night Sirens, and I am amazed by Stefan Vučak’s attention to detail and creativity. I enjoyed getting to know the characters. Frank is a confident man who wants to live a seemingly ordinary life, and Nadala is a strong female character who knows what she wants and fights for what is right. I loved how I learned about the history and biology of the feeders at the same time as Nadala, who is new to this underground world. Frank and Nadala have great chemistry and natural interactions. Their first encounter was perfectly placed in the storyline. Vučak introduced readers to the motivations and lives of the characters before they interacted. The shady organizations, governments, and taskforces in Night Sirens are all unique and realistic. If you need to read a suspense novel with a great storyline and interesting characters, this is the book for you.

Readers’ Favorite

Books by Stefan Vučak

Shadow Gods Saga:

In the Shadow of Death

Against the Gods of Shadow

A Whisper from Shadow

Shadow Masters

Immortal in Shadow

With Shadow and Thunder

Through the Valley of Shadow

Guardians of Shadow

Science Fiction:

Fulfillment

Lifeliners

All My Sunsets

Fiction:

Cry of Eagles

All the Evils

Towers of Darkness

Strike for Honor

Proportional Response

Legitimate Power

Autumn Leaves

F/X-26

28th Amendment

Night Sirens

Non-fiction:

Writing Tips for Authors

Dedication

To Mirko … when reaching toward the stars

Acknowledgments

To Lily Luchesi Annie Smith for additional proofreading and insightful suggestions.

Partners in Crime Book Services

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Cover art by Laura Shinn.

http://laurashinn.yolasite.com

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

About the Author

More Books by Stefan Vučak

Chapter One

Frank Hram waited for the brown-tinted glass panels to slide aside, then stepped onto a crowded sidewalk. A wave of traffic noise along the always busy Collins Street made him wince with distaste. Funny, the endless footfalls of people were almost silent. He would ponder the mystery one day over a snifter of cognac, but not here, not now.

A lingering scent of acrid car exhausts produced a passing scowl…a problem seemingly without any solution, wanting to breathe crisp air laced with the scent of oily eucalyptus. This weekend perhaps, he’ll drive into the Dandenong hills and indulge himself in nature to replenish what the city had drained from him.

Along the boulevard’s median strip, golden elm branches swayed to the whisper of a light breeze. The leaves rustled in protest as a hot northerly gust suddenly raced up the canyon-like street, the effect created by towering buildings on both sides. They witnessed it all before, including the smog. He took it all in and exhaled softly.

Tempted to walk back to his empty air-conditioned apartment, devoid of warmth or somebody waiting for him, he turned left and merged with the flow of pedestrians pushing past him on their way toward the Southern Cross railway hub to catch a train to some suburb and faraway home. Others like him jostled up the street in search of a convenient bar to tank up before finishing the day. Endless rivers of people, and streets were arteries that channeled the never-ending streams. Blank faces, tired faces, animated faces, an anonymous tide ebbing out of the city. Tomorrow morning the flood would carry in those same faces. A treadmill stuck on fast with no off button.

Frank could have waited for the evening peak hour to subside before venturing out without having his senses battered. Unaccountably restless, not wanting to spend the evening alone, he gave into the urge to mingle. Weekend afternoons were best to be out, the central business district almost deserted, until evening when a minor surge of excitement seekers ventured out looking to forget reality for a while in a restaurant, theater, cinema, or some other place of earthy entertainment. Right now, he only saw suffering weariness of office slaves who faced a dull trip home by train or car along clogged highways, and they did it twice a day. Mentally exhausted by the time they came to work, and totally wrung out when they got home, some still had energy to go out someplace for distracting amusement. He shook his head, not understanding any of it.

A two-bedroom apartment in the same building as his business had lots of practical advantages, but silence, greenery, and a backyard were not one of them. It still beat the hell out of facing a twice-daily commuter crush, and made up for everything else. When he wanted silence, greenery, fresh air, he took a drive out of the city somewhere to connect with a saner world.

At the Queen Street intersection, a tram clattered through as he waited for the walk sign to turn green. Swept along by the throng, he made his way toward Bourke Street, past the corner Cbus Tower, and stopped in front of the Emporium Hotel, one of his favorite watering stops. After a relaxing drink, a dinner engagement at the fashionable uptown Ishizuka restaurant would cap a fine day. He loved the cuisine, subdued lighting, and waitresses tip-toeing around in traditional kimonos, smiling and bowing politely. Every décor detail and soft Japanese background music designed to promote an ambiance of tranquility for sophisticated patrons. Frank saw few young people there, the setting far removed from preferred Western-style gregarious establishments. For him, such places lacked cultural refinement, he decided phlegmatically. He always sought restaurants with character where he could immerse himself into their subtle atmosphere. As for discos, the image of gyrating, arm-waving couples thinking they were having fun made him shudder. Old-fashioned stylized mating rituals. A symphony to pluck at his emotions and make his mind soar, a tumbler of something in hand, made living worth enduring.

The Emporium dining room specialized in Mediterranean dishes, and he always enjoyed superb meals there. A little pricy, but as with Japanese diners, that little extra separated living from mere existence. Besides, someone once said indulgence filled the soul, or perhaps he made up the thing as a reflection of his own self. He strode into the lobby, glanced at the still mostly deserted restaurant with its brown paneled walls, square tables covered with genuine lace cloth, cut glass chandeliers, and turned left toward the noisy Blink’s Bar, many of its small round tables already occupied. Apart from an odd snack, no meals served here, the tables did not have to be large. Like any bar, the place smelled of spilled beer and sharp spirits. It never ran short of lunchtime customers having a quick one before returning to the office grind. In the evening, after work suit types perhaps wanted a badly needed alcohol fix to close off what might have been a stressful day, or maybe dreading tomorrow. Then again, a drink might fortify them for what waited at home.

Frank did not give a toss why somebody came here. He liked to sit quietly, sip his mix, and watch people. They were funny, silly, solemn, depressed, and lots had all those attributes in one package. The problem with some, he decided, they took themselves too damn seriously. They lacked a sense of humor to laugh at themselves and everything around them. That’s how he beat the game. The world still kept turning whether he worried or not.

He pushed through standing groups and strode toward an empty stool beside the bar. Soft music filled the background, the kind of stuff popular in the seventies and eighties. The drinks were not watered and the bartenders would talk to him if they had a spare minute. Cheaper than a session with a mind twister and delivered about the same level of service.

Maybe the slow pace and the square atmosphere attracted young up-and-coming executives. According to Walt, some came to enjoy the dated sounds, liked the mood, and became regulars, proud to have discovered a really cool place.

He sat down and Walt nodded to him from the other end of the bar. The portly bartender, laugh lines crinkling his eyes, bald head slick under the lights, a cleaning rag always in hand, ambled over. He could be fifty or sixty, unchanged in the eight years Frank knew him. The man must have seen and heard just about everything in his time, and laughed at it all. Somewhere in his checkered past, he also learned how to beat the game.

How’s life, big guy?

If I wanted decent booze, I wouldn’t be here, Frank told him amiably.

Walt shrugged. There’s a pub down the street if you don’t like what I serve. The usual?

Make it a double. Frank cast a quick glance at the mixed clientele. Easy to be picked up here by either sex, knowing from personal experience, but he wasn’t hunting this evening, and would not need to for a while yet. He simply wanted a drink with bodies around him.

Hard day at the office? Walt asked as he squirted a dash of ginger ale into a tumbler of bourbon, no ice. Casual chitchat came free with the drinks.

It’s money coming in, Frank said indifferently and dragged a bowl of mixed nuts toward him. You know, figuring out how to invest a few spare bucks isn’t all that difficult. All it takes is some research and a bit of common sense. He popped two roasted cashews into his mouth and chewed.

I hear ’ya. Walt slid a cork coaster across the bar and placed the tumbler on it. The thing is, buddy, if sense was really common, you wouldn’t be enjoying your fancy Collins Street pad.

Frank picked up the tumbler and took a sip. I guess. He cocked an eyebrow at the bartender. "Are you looking to invest some spare cash?"

Hah! If I had any spare cash, I’d be sunning my butt somewhere in Queensland. Too steamy this time of year, though, Walt reflected. Still alone? No good living alone. Take me. Married for twenty-four years and the fire hasn’t gone out. We’ve had our ups and downs like everybody, and Marica even left me once. Came back after a week at her mother’s. We talked it over and sealed the reunion with a romp in bed. He chuckled at the memory and absently wiped the bar top. That’s the trouble with kids these days. No patience. They have an argument and bam! The next day, they’re divorced.

Yeah, so I heard, Frank agreed.

Hey! How about some service here? a bulky individual demanded from the other side of the bar.

Walt shrugged. Catch you later or I’ll get beer thrown in my face.

Frank smiled after the retreating figure. Pushing thirty-eight, he often wondered what it would be like to have a warm bundle beside him in bed to love, share secrets in midnight pillow talk, go places together, have kids, and be normal like everybody else, whatever the hell that meant. He missed his chance to have it all with Rainey. Memories bubbled to the surface and he spent a few moments raking over the more pleasant ones. After a couple of sips, they faded into yesterday’s scrapbook. That’s where he ought to be, in a scrapbook. Then again, Walt might be right. Time to let go and move on. Owen told him as much more than once. Happily married, his business partner dispensed marital advice like a gumball machine.

He took another sip, letting the bar’s ambiance wash over him, soaking it all in.

Someone gave a heavy grunt beside him and Frank turned. Perhaps in his mid-thirties, dressed in a dark gray suit, yellow tie pulled down, clear blue eyes regarded him with amused cynicism. Streaks of white at the temples added a touch of formality and dignity to an otherwise rugged face and powerful figure women liked. Frank gave a mental shrug. Some guys had it all, knew it, and made many self-conceited bastards. He wondered if this guy fit the mold, prepared to be surprised.

A young waiter brought a fat glass of red wine and placed it before Frank’s new acquaintance. The man took a pull, nodded in appreciation, and lifted the glass in a salute.

Not bad actually. How’s your stuff?

Drinkable, Frank said with a grin. Coming here is a diversion from the unforgiving madness outside.

Wow, heavy stuff for this time of day, his friend growled and turned slightly to check out females cruising to be picked up.

You’re wasting your time, my boy, Frank told him with a shake of his head. All the good ones are already taken. These are strictly one-nighters.

Can’t shoot a guy for looking. They haven’t passed a law against that yet, but give them time. The deep laugh lit the man’s eyes with open humor. Name’s Dan, he said and stuck out a meaty paw.

Frank.

No pretense there and he began to warm to him.

Dan’s hand cool and dry, both maneuvered for a knuckle crusher. Childish, but what the hell. Frank left all the serious bits he wanted in the office. Time to chill out as the kids said. He had an advantage in height and reach, but did not underestimate Dan’s powerful grip. From a confident smirk, Dan’s expression changed to a surprised grimace of pain. Frank let him go before the encounter became too uncomfortable.

Damn! Dan grunted and massaged his fingers. It’s been a while since I came off second best.

I’ll be around whenever you want a reminder, Frank told him with a smile.

They clicked glasses and Dan suddenly sat up. Man! Check out that chassis!

Frank followed his gaze and almost missed her standing at the bar entrance.

Early twenties, not tall, she carried herself with power and maturity, something he liked to see in a woman. Black hair spilled down her back and hung above a slim waist. Oval eyes, highlighted by blue eyeshadow, drew attention to a delicate face, small upturned nose, and full lips brushed with gloss. He could not tell if she wore any other makeup. Dressed in a loose beige blouse with a generous cleavage, the clinging brown knee-length skirt showed shapely legs. Black stiletto heels, open at the toes, fixed at the ankles by thin straps, gave an impression of extra height. For a second, he swore silence drowned all conversation as every male eye in the room clicked to focus on her. Her confident posture and an almost visible glow gave her away. An energy feeder, he wondered what prey she would catch tonight. She hunted openly, wanting men to see her ready for some close entertainment.

It takes maturity, training, and a lifetime of experience to recognize a feeder, provided one chose to be recognized. There were little mannerisms a feeder can adopt to prevent recognition, and Frank used them all. This woman flaunted her desire.

He turned and shrugged. Not bad, he said offhandedly.

Not bad? Dan shook his head and gave him a pitying sigh. You happen to leave your eyeballs at home or something? Step aside. This is man’s work, sonny. Without taking his eyes off the woman, he placed his wineglass on the bar and stood up.

Amused, Frank watched him walk to her, beating another suitor vying for her attention. Dan leaned toward her and said something. She gave him an appraising look as though measuring a side of beef, nodded, and smiled. Dan wound her arm around his, winked at Frank, and they strode out. He expected Dan to have a very interesting night.

Frank lifted his tumbler and sipped, figuring it was none of his business how the woman hunted, and she would not take too much from Dan. Ordinary men provided what she needed to survive, and women provided what men like Frank needed. Simple as that. He could link with a man, but that wasn’t his stuff. Life went on, and nobody could figure out why it had to be like that. Philosophers, priests, and mystics tried over the millennia, and some thought they had it. He never read anything yet that explained it to his satisfaction. Best to stick with his Zen shikantaza and forget trying to understand it all. Let the all be his total self without conceptualization, grasping, goal seeking, unencumbered by traditional bodhisattva rituals.

He finished the drink and dismissed Dan from his mind. Right now, he had a culinary appointment to keep. He stood, threw bills on the bar, waved to Walt, and headed for the lobby, looking forward to dining on some superb Japanese cuisine.

* * *

Fingers locked behind his head, Frank gazed absently at the far wall of his bedroom. Dawn broke and he heard muffled sounds of cars moving outside. Nice and snug, his thoughts wandered, not dwelling on anything in particular. A jumble of random associations he used as an excuse not to get out of bed. To get up meant shattering his contented mood and face a harsh, indifferent world. Only a few moments more, he told himself and closed his eyes.

A car horn blared as a driver vented frustration at some offending miscreant. His fantasy dissolved and he became fully awake. He pursed his lips, threw back the light blanket, and padded into the bathroom. A shower and a shave perked him up and he dressed quickly, not fussing over his appearance, but as managing director of Urbi Investments, he needed to project a professional front for the company’s existing and prospective clients.

With the percolator going, filling the kitchen and living room with an enticing aroma, he prepared breakfast of homemade muesli, the ingredients bought at Victoria Market—the packaged supermarket stuff mostly sugar bombs—cut up a red capsicum, then added blueberries and tomato slices to the mix. Sadly, most vegetables these days lacked any smell and were almost tasteless. Lately, the apples and pears he’d been eating started an argument with his stomach. Probably all the chemicals in them to force growth or keep them from rotting on shelves. On his weekend trips out of town, he always picked up fruit and veggies from local farmers that had old-fashioned substance and flavor.

A second fix of coffee, warm mug held between his hands, he glanced at the electronic wall clock screen: 8:05 am, Wednesday, December 6, 2023. The rest of the week would be all downhill toward another Saturday. As he watched the thing, the number changed to 8:06. Coffee finished, he washed up, brushed his teeth, slipped on a dark maroon tie, and pulled on a black cashmere jacket to finish off. A last glance at the mirror showed a hard face, granite gray eyes below a full crop of almost charcoal hair brushed straight back. At 179cm, he still looked good; no eye bags or drooping jowls, his body kept trim with regular exercise at the downstairs gym. He nodded and headed for the door. With the monitored alarm system enabled, he strode quickly toward a bank of three elevators. The Oaks on Collins apartments, located in the Collins Street Tower office complex, made getting to work almost a pleasurable experience. As with everything, some days were better than others.

As an added security measure, a wireless camera installed in the ceiling aircon grille kept five days of takes in cloud storage. Personal safety and security were priority life items for every Keeper who contemplated ongoing survival, which Frank did. One hint of his true nature to anybody and the exterminators would come sniffing. His parents may have suspected during his turbulent teenage years when the urge to feed first manifested itself, but they never broached the subject. Perhaps better for all concerned.

In December 2010, the debilitating effects of the Global Financial Crisis starting to fade, he bought his two-bedroom pad and persuaded Owen Emerson, a longtime friend, to start a financial consulting business. If they wanted to make serious money in life, slaving for somebody else on a salary would not do it, regardless how high the salary, he told Owen. Frank had two other buddies; the four of them attended the same high school. After graduating, each pursued a different course of study and career, and over time drifted apart. Except for Owen. They all got together once or twice a year without the wives in tow to yarn over old times and pontificate on the new, but the close connection they enjoyed before faded as the years marched. Flotsam on the river of time, that’s what they were. Like time cared where it took people riding it.

Many investors, large and small, badly burned during the GFC, were ready for someone honest to tell them what to do with their money. The industry had a deserved ‘buyer beware’ dictum and people were wary. An office opposite the Rialto Tower added a veneer of prestige and reassurance to nervous clients not sure two young looking entrepreneurs could handle their millions. It took five years of long hours and many missed weekends to build up a solid reputation and goodwill in the cutthroat financial market before things picked up and real returns started to come in.

Although only twenty-seven at the time, Frank brought into the business KPMG work experience and investment knowhow gained at Lodge & Porters, one of the most respectable trading houses in Melbourne, a bachelor’s degree in commerce, and a master’s in finance. A year older, Owen held an accounting and law degree, which gave Urbi the required spread of practical professionalism and academic snobbery clients appreciated. Everybody liked to see framed diplomas on an office wall. They handled a portfolio of $716 million, distributed in shares, various managed funds, and cryptocurrency. So far, Urbi’s clients did well sticking with the relative newcomers, because he and Owen treated them with scrupulous honesty, prepared to steer them somewhere else for a better deal. Many came back when that better deal turned out not to be so good.

The elevator door opened on the 14th floor and he faced a long frosted glass panel, his business name set in black-bordered gold script. The single clear entrance panel slid away when he pressed a glowing green pad, and he walked into the tastefully furnished reception area.

Catherine Rossen looked up from her curved, grained wood workstation flanked by two tall potted plants decorated with tinsel and colored glass balls in anticipation of Christmas, and smiled. Behind her, a floor-to-ceiling window revealed a jagged city skyline. The modern, clean décor always went down well with clients, in contrast to some firms who still thought the 1900s dark paneling look spelled stability and respectability.

Morning, Frank, she said cheerfully and held out several message slips.

With them since he and Owen opened the firm in mid-2011, of average height, short auburn hair highlighted bright brown eyes and small mouth, Cathy served as receptionist, office manager, and general gofer. Whatever needed doing, she took care of it. Not a partner, but Frank made sure her salary and benefits kept her with them. She did not need the money really, moderately wealthy after following Frank’s investment advice. As she pointed out over coffee more than once, work kept her mind busy. Better than staring at a TV all day and slowly going batty. Happily married, two teenage boys a handful at home, she added cheerfulness and a sunny disposition to some dull days. Like any business, Urbi had them.

Anything I need to know? he asked as he grabbed the slips.

You have a Miss Tammy Rezing at nine. The rest are call-me-back things. One is from an old client, Gregory Forster. He wants to see you soonest.

Is Owen in?

Not yet.

He shoved the message slips into his jacket pocket and headed for the small kitchen/lounge. A mug of strong black coffee in hand, one sugar, he walked into his office and powered up the networked tower computer sitting on a large black-grained gray executive desk. Apart from a ceiling-high wall unit stuffed with books, magazines, odd trinkets, two seascapes on one wall, Frank liked his office bare and functional. A window behind him took up the entire wall and provided all the natural light the room needed.

He quickly scanned several financial websites for latest market developments, stock movements, and general heads-up items. The vibes from everyone were strong that the Federal Reserve Bank would lift interest rates before Christmas. Otherwise, the local and international trade, monetary and fiscal climate, looked fairly stable, already having factored in a possible rate hike designed to keep inflation in check. Coal futures were down again as the world slowly weaned itself off this energy source, but gas had rallied.

The Greens Party wanted to kill all coal and gas usage in the name of reducing global carbon emissions, but reliable, cheap renewable supplies were still years off in their ability to provide base load power for houses and industry. This cold fact did not stop them beating the drums of change. At the last federal election, Elena Griffin, the new Labor Party Prime Minister, refused to adopt the Green’s radical and economically damaging policy, and promoted investment in gas exploration and delivery infrastructure. She insisted all companies must reserve at least 20% of all supplies for the country’s internal consumption rather than seek best deals through international sales. No more nonsense pegging the domestic market to the international spot price. The big exploration companies grumbled and threatened to pull out, and Griffin told them to go ahead and leave. In reality, reserving a percentage of production for domestic consumption meant a miniscule drop in annual earnings. Not worth incurring the government’s wrath and public ridicule for being heartless profit gougers, which everybody knew they were.

Homework done, he checked the message slips, shot off several email replies, and slotted Forster for three pm into the appointment system.

The phone rang and he picked up.

Miss Rezing is here, Cathy announced, and Frank glanced at the clock weather station on his desk, startled to find it showed almost nine.

Show her in. He hastily dragged on his jacket and straightened loose papers. Perception rules everything, he told himself.

He recalled Rezing’s file and two previous meetings when she approached Urbi for investment advice. Twenty-nine, a geologist at BHP, single, around 162cm, raven hair tied in a severe bun, which made a startling contrast with her pale features. Frank remembered a long, somber face, large green eyes with penetrating directness, and a sharp delivery when she spoke. Slim, fashionably dressed, he would not have minded dating her. A passing fancy.

A knock and Cathy opened the door, ushering in his guest. He stood and offered his hand.

A pleasure to see you again, Miss Rezing. He squeezed her small hand, smelling fresh perfume.

Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Hram, she replied coolly and sat in the visitor chair without waiting for an invitation. She clearly expected deference and made sure she got it. Legs crossed, she tugged down her navy blue skirt over tanned legs.

Can I get you a coffee or something?

I’m fine.

In that case, what can I do for you?

She bit her lower right lip and frowned. "I’m in a bit of a bind. As you know, apart from my shares portfolio you helped set up, I own thirty Bitcoins my father bought for me in 2012 as a flyer. Since then, I accumulated an additional twenty before the 2021 peak. With the current price hovering around $89,300, I want to sell some to finance purchase of a central city apartment to better suit my work requirements and lifestyle. The alternative is to offload some of my shares for the purchase. I would appreciate your input